The Final Curtain (32 page)

She looked again at the companion. Diana Tong would be a woman who would do ‘the necessary'. Whatever needed to be done she would do. It was as simple as that.

Wordlessly she leafed through more of the photographs. Gawky teenager, smartly suited in Crimplene, wearing clothes too old for her, white gloves, pillbox hat, standing with a tight-lipped smile into the camera. The wedding photograph of a very, very young Timony clutching the arm of Gerald. Joanna peered closer. He was wearing the Rolex watch on his wrist. The one which had been buried with him? Or the one which had turned up here a few weeks ago? Were they one and the same? Who knew?

She smiled to herself. Even if Colclough had not been about to be replaced by Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush she knew she would never get permission to exhume Gerald's body purely on the pretext of checking whether he was still wearing his Rolex watch.

She picked up another wedding photograph. Sean Butterfield, aka Malcolm Hadleigh, stood proudly, legs apart, hips thrust testosterone forward. Gerald's best man. Hadleigh was keeping a wary eye on Timony, glance sliding surreptitiously to his side. Joanna studied the bride's face under a magnifying glass. Her head was facing forwards as though if she did not hold it rigidly it would swing around to Hadleigh. Joanna sat back and thought. So who was Stuart Renshaw's father? DNA would prove the point quickly enough. It was very possible that Timony had borne Hadleigh's child three years before this picture was taken, way before she had been of marriageable age. It was also possible that Renshaw's father was someone else. Joanna looked for clues at the other members of the wedding group. May Butterfield, Lily's mother, was watching, a little detached from the others, a slightly sour expression on her face. She looked as though she wanted no part in this. Keith and David were lined up but also looking as though they were playing no part in the proceedings, as though they too, wanted to detach themselves from this particular scene. No – the magic triangle existed between Timony, Gerald and Sean. Magic triangle? Joanna questioned her phrase. If it was magic it was black magic. There was nothing good about this. Behind Timony stood a tall, bulky woman who glared into the camera as though she resented being there. Joanna looked up and saw the same angry glare in Diana Tong's face. She smiled. The dogsbody hadn't changed much. But she was waiting for Joanna to see something else. She looked back at the photograph. In the place where Timony's father should have stood was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose. He had thick grey hair, eagle eyes and a hooked nose.

‘James Freeman,' Diana said. ‘Producer.' Then, quietly, ‘There's somewhere you should visit.'

A
nd so on the following morning Joanna found herself driving along a small lane in Worcestershire, turning into a farm entrance and standing on the hallowed turf of what had once been the real Butterfield Farm. One sign remained: a battered piece of wood with its name painted on still attached to a five bar gate. Joanna parked up and stood, leaning over it, staring, her mind's eye seeing what it must have been like.

The approach was a tarmac drive, weeds sprouting up the middle. There were muddy puddles dotted here and there and the grass was unkempt, almost obscuring the way. There were nettles and brambles. It spoke of years of decay and neglect. Hard to think that it once would have been a hive of bustling activity and glamour.

As the gate was padlocked she climbed over, glad she was sensibly dressed in jeans, low-heeled boots and a skiing jacket, thick gloves keeping her hands warm and dry as she crunched up the drive.

Years ago, it must have been, the real Butterfield had clearly been burnt down almost to the ground. Nothing was left now but a shell, a few piles of discarded bricks. The roof had long ago fallen in, leaving the interior open to the elements. Elders sprouted here and there, nature reclaiming its own. There were large clumps of nettles and the usual detritus of dereliction: rusting cans, a vague stink of stale urine, a few MacDonald's and KFC's Styrofoam boxes and a pile of broken beer bottles. It was a forlorn, depressing place now. Whatever its glamorous past no one loved it now. It had been abandoned rather than rebuilt. Half a mile up the road Joanna had passed another sign for Butterfield Farm. It was the most modern of bungalows, solar panels on the roof, triple glazing to the windows. She assumed that it was the rebuild and this was the wreck. After the fire the farmer must have abandoned Butterfield to its fate and replaced it with something much more practical. She searched around, wondering if she would find any sign at all of Butterfield's past, but she found nothing. Not even an ancient clapper board or a rusting lipstick. Not a piece of sodden paper holding a line of script or a scrap of material from a costume. She would have liked to have found a piece of Timony's hair ribbon or a piece of shoe leather; something concrete to prove to her that Butterfield really had existed. But standing here, on a cold day, without even a hint of sunshine, it was easier to believe that it never had existed in reality but was all fantasy, something that only existed inside the wooden box of an old-fashioned television. It was not real at all. It never had been.

So what did you expect, Piercy
? she muttered.
It was fifty years ago.

She turned away, glad she had come alone, without Korpanski. She could just imagine his groan at another wasted morning. But she wished she had gleaned
something
from the visit. The atmosphere here was oppressive. Depressing. There was finality about this obliteration. It wasn't just decay. It was more as though it never had been. Well, there was no chance of Butterfield being resurrected, she thought, except it had been. Not here but elsewhere, it had been faithfully copied in the Staffordshire Moorlands. Had this Butterfield been deliberately torched, she wondered, when it had been superseded? Had its destruction been the result of a simple accident? Or deliberate arson? Had someone wanted to cover up what had happened here? Why had it been
so
neglected when it had once been the epicentre of an iconic series of the sixties? It could have been turned into a tourist attraction. But instead it had been left to ruin, as though it was ashamed of its past and wanted to forget it. Perhaps there was
nothing
to be learned here because there was nothing of its past left here. She looked around and wondered how many times the actors had stood in this exact spot, replaying scene after scene while Freeman shouted, ‘Cut', and, ‘Let's do that scene again'. While the wardrobe mistress fretted over costumes, the animal trainers fussed over their charges, the continuity team and the rest produced what today appeared a heavily dated and rather stilted soap. It must have been so different in those far-off days. Joanna closed her eyes and pictured it as it would have been then, bustling with people and animals, the farmhouse itself pristine, grass and drives manicured as she had seen on the television. Now the place had reverted to a wilderness; nature had claimed her own back.

Joanna stood still for a moment, berating herself for using too much imagination. She was a police officer, here to try and solve a murder.
Ideas
weren't going to be what would solve it. And then something hit her. Why had Diana Tong suggested she come here? There must have been a reason. But, surely, there was no lesson she could learn from here, except, perhaps, a lesson of impermanence. Slowly she began to walk away from the farm, disappointed. Then she turned back. Something
had
been left unharmed. It was still here. The well, exactly as it had been recreated in front of Butterfield Farm in the moorlands. Remembering Timony's words she stepped towards it and forced herself to look over the wall. The mouth of the well was clogged up with rubbish, almost to the top. Nettles and brambles had knotted a web which had caught passing rubbish, fallen leaves, rusting cans. And they now formed an impenetrable barrier rather than a pool of water, concealing whatever it was that lay beneath. She banged her hands on the stone in frustration.

She stood for a while, trying to fathom out whether there was a reason that Diana Tong had directed her here. Or had she expected her visit to the site to help her focus on past events rather than on the physical property or the series?

Slowly her mind filled in empty spaces with a man clutching at the sides of the well. No one helping him. Fantasy? Reality? If even Timony hadn't been able to decide how the hell could she?

She drove home in pensive mood, still convinced that the reason for Timony's menace and ultimate murder lay somewhere in her past, but there was almost too much of it. She was swamped by images of Timony Weeks – the child star, the many-times bride, the child lost to her family – except, surreptitiously, to her sister, Timony the underage mother whose own child had been adopted, Timony being guarded by a cynical production team, Timony who had lost her childhood at the age of eight. There had been so much debris in front of the truth that Joanna had found it difficult to recognize what was real and what unreal, what was significant and what not. So now the challenge was to find a path through the maze of make-believe and locate the centre. And to do that she had to reduce the story to one simple question. Why had Timony Weeks been subjected to a campaign of fear, then finally had to die?

That was the question and this was what she must concentrate on. As she headed back up the motorway towards Birmingham Joanna was a bit disappointed in herself. Usually an explanation occurred to her by instinct which fitted the facts as neatly as a handmade glove. She had always believed, with an almost superstitious conviction, that it was this that made her a good detective, this almost fey belief that her subconscious would worry at a problem until it found a solution that fitted. Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski, as pragmatic a colleague as anyone could have, might scoff. But he and she had both benefitted from her powers of ‘illumination'. Was this talent now about to abandon her? Or was it simply not ready to win through because it did not have all the relevant facts?

And yet. Something pricked her mind. When she got back she could easily look it up on the Internet. Or get Mike to do it.

She pulled into the services and connected with Korpanski. ‘Mike,' she said, ‘any luck with tracking down Malcolm Hadleigh?'

‘Yeah. He's appearing at the New Victoria Theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme, the theatre in the round,' Korpanski said. ‘He's playing some part in Carmen.' Korpanski paused and felt he needed to add, ‘It's an opera.' Joanna smothered a smile. ‘Ri-ight,' she said.

‘Don't ask me and Fran to go,' Korpanski growled. ‘Not my cup of tea at all.'

‘I wasn't. I was thinking that maybe Matthew and I should have a night out.'

‘Yeah.' She could hear Korpanski's smile. ‘Just don't tell him it's work,' he said. ‘They're playing every night until next Tuesday.'

‘Great. We should be able to get some tickets. Mike,' she hesitated, ‘I want us to go together and speak to Freeman,' she said, ‘but not just yet. We'll leave it till Monday. I'm heading back to Leek now.'

‘Did your visit to the site inspire you?'

‘Not sure,' she said, reluctant to tell him that for once her brain was totally devoid of any ideas. ‘Just one thing more, Mike. Find out who owns Butterfield.'

‘Timony,' he answered uncertainly.

‘Not that Butterfield,' she said.

‘Aaagh.' Korpanski had found enlightenment. ‘See you in a bit then, Jo.'

She found the ‘
New Vic's
' website on her smart phone, rang and booked two tickets for the Saturday night before ringing Matthew and telling him to keep the evening free.

‘OK,' he said cheerfully, not asking why. It was one of things she loved most about him. Matthew was spontaneous, game for almost anything. She could spring surprises on him and he would love it.

‘I've got some tickets for the New Vic,' she partially explained.

He showed no curiosity. ‘OK,' he said again.

‘
Carmen
,' she said.

And he confirmed her opinion. ‘Great. Oh, by the way,' he said. ‘Your victim, Timony.'

‘Yes?'

‘I've got some toxicology back. She was so full of barbiturates she'd practically been anaesthetized.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.'

She'd no sooner stopped speaking to Matthew than another call came in, from Phil Scott this time. ‘We've got an address for Rolf Van Eelen and Trixy,' he said excitedly. ‘I've rung him. We're on our way there now.'

‘Where is he?'

‘He's moved to Cardiff.'

‘Cardiff? I thought he was living in Spain.'

‘He left there in 2010. Reading between the lines I think his business went down the chute so he came home.'

‘I'm in Worcestershire,' she said. ‘I'll turn around and join you in South Wales. It'll be interesting.' And hopefully informative, she thought.

They met at the M4 services and drove in convoy into Cardiff City and Van Eelen's address. Whatever had happened in Spain he had done well for himself back here. It was a beautiful, large detached stone house at the end of a rhododendron-lined drive in a very smart area of Roath, which is, in itself, an upmarket area in the capital city of Wales. Two cars stood stationary outside: a Mercedes and a Lexus: more evidence that Van Eelen wasn't exactly strapped for cash. The door was pulled open immediately and Van Eelen strode towards them.

Joanna recognized him from the wedding photograph. He was still big and blond, slightly overweight and very confident. He eyed Joanna uncertainly, his head on one side, as though evaluating her. Joanna introduced herself, WPC Bridget Anderton and DC Phil Scott, Leek Police.

Hot on Van Eelen's heels trotted the slim brunette from the wedding photographs: skinny black jeans and a floppy white sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbows displaying stringy forearms which rattled with silver bangles. She looked appraisingly at Joanna, obviously a woman who sized up perceived competition without wasting time. Having made her judgement she linked her arm possessively into Rolf's. The gesture was so patently obvious that Joanna couldn't help smiling.